


Potions and Consequences

by buttcatcher



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, It is now, M/M, Scent Kink, geralt just wants to hold and love him okay, heightened senses lead to some fun times, is that a thing?, jaskier's poor heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22651816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher
Summary: To say Jaskier was annoyed would be an understatement.Geralt leaving him at whatever inn they happened by during contracts wasn’t new. In fact, the first time the witcher had stood up from a tavern table and stalked toward the door with a gruff demand that Jaskier not follow, the bard had merely sputtered before attempting to trail behind that lonely figure out into the night, only to be not so gently pushed back into the bustling atmosphere of the tavern.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 760





	Potions and Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this at work because it was slow and I love these two

To say Jaskier was annoyed would be an understatement.

Geralt leaving him at whatever inn they happened by during contracts wasn’t new. In fact, the first time the witcher had stood up from a tavern table and stalked toward the door with a gruff demand that Jaskier not follow, the bard had merely sputtered before attempting to trail behind that lonely figure out into the night, only to be not so gently pushed back into the bustling atmosphere of the tavern.

So, realistically, he shouldn’t be so hurt about not being able to tag along and witness the man take down a werewolf. Even if the way Geralt had described the creature to him would surely lead to a few sleepless nights. 

But be that as it may, Jaskier was none too happy to be stuck in the dinky town tavern while his travel companion was out possibly getting killed. 

The uneven wooden floorboards smelled of piss and spilt ale and, while he was a social person by nature, there was nothing Jaskier wanted more than to make sure Geralt was alright. Not that the witcher had ever needed his help in taking down a monster before but there was a first time for everything, he supposed.

“-askier,” a feminine voice pulled him out of his head, the brunette by his side wrapping herself around his arm as she laughed with the woman sitting on the bench by his other side. “What did you say he fought again?”

“A cockatrice.”

The laughter of the women on his arms was drowned out by the ruckus the locals were making around them, ale sloshing onto the already sticky floor and cheers sounding all around despite the ball of worry lodged deep in Jaskier’s gut. 

A slim hand sliding its way up his thigh brought his focus back enough to offer her a charming smile for her troubles, unable to focus on the way she leaned close to his ear and whispered some suggestive invitation involving the butchering of the monster’s name.

It was tempting; her ample breasts brushed his arm with every laugh and her hair smelled of Arenaria petals, but he knew if he accepted her offer, his heart wouldn’t truly be in it. Couldn’t be, with the constant anxiety he felt in his shaking hands at the thought of Geralt not coming back. Of not seeing those otherworldly eyes crinkle at the corners when he tried to bite back a smile at the bard’s antics, of not seeing those broad shoulders strong and so, so powerful as he sat upon Roach and single handedly galloped into Jaskier’s heart. 

He was about to gently turn her services down when the door to the tavern flew open and cracked against the wall in a way only a witcher would find acceptable, a large and imposing figure lumbering into the instantly silent pub with blood dripping from what looked like every inch of the man. Black darkness shrouded his back as he strode into the light of the tavern, ignoring the wide eyes and hushed whispers as he scanned the room.

 _“Geralt,”_ Jaskier whispered as he stared at his friend, shock rendering him unable to move as those sharp catlike eyes snapped toward him and zeroed in on the hand still dangerously close to his crotch. 

Then, impossibly, Geralt’s eyes narrowed and those blood covered lips curled back in what Jaskier could only describe as a sneer. The minstrel didn’t even have time to try and pick that expression apart before Geralt was pushing past stunned and frightened townspeople to the stairs that led to their room for the night; the only one the place had vacant when they arrived there hours ago. 

“W-was that him? The White Wolf?” The women at his sides nervously asked, and Jaskier only felt a little bad as he smoothly pulled himself from their wandering hands and dashed up the stairs after the witcher, the way the man had looked tugging at his heart.

It wasn’t hard to find the white-haired man; the evidence of the werewolf he had fought for the village was hard to miss. Dirty footprints and splatters of blood led a gruesome trail to their shared room, and Jaskier barely felt the relief at finding the door unlocked. 

“Geralt-” Any and all words Jaskier could have said died on hi slips as his eyes settled on the hulking form in the middle of their room, wide shoulders facing him as the witcher subtly scented the air in their makeshift home for the night, white turned muddy brown and red hair shifting in clumps over his shoulders as he searched for…

Actually, Jaskier didn’t know what the man was looking for, let along doing. “Geralt,” he tried again, hurriedly rushing into the room and closing the door behind him. “Are you hurt? Is that blood-“

“Not mine.” The voice that interrupted his fretting barely sounded like Geralt at all. It hardly sounded like a voice at all. While the brooding man had a deep timbre on a good day, this was almost hard to understand with how it sounded like a whole riverbed of rocks were rumbling around din his throat.

It made a heat simmer low in his belly; a feeling he studiously ignored in favor of fretting. “Are you sure? Come, let me take that armor off so we can-“

“No.”

Halfway to reaching out toward the man, Jaskier froze where he stood. "No? _’No’?_ You’re covered in blood and fur and smell like a walking outhouse-“

It was then that Jaskier caught the shaking in those pale hands, the full body tremble that seemed to rattle up and down Geralt’s spine in a way he wasn’t used to. It was odd seeing the infallible man look so unhinged. “Geralt,” he tried again, much softer this time, the worry he couldn’t keep out of his voice sounding pleading in a way he knew affected the other as much as he tried to claim it didn’t. “What’s wrong? Were you bitten?”

It takes a moment for the blood-soaked man to squeeze in a breath before a minute shake of his head lets Jaskier know he wasn’t used as a giant dog toy. “Potion. Thunderbolt.”

“Oh.” He had seen Geralt take potions; ones that gave him better lung capacity when the monster he had to kill lived underwater, ones that made his eyes darker than the furthest reaches of infested caves, ones that helped him see more clearly in the dark.

He had seen him take many things, but the side effects of this one were new to him. “Is that why you’re shaking?” He cautioned gently, finally crossing the distance to place a placating hand along the witcher’s bicep, ignoring the sticky residue caked into the armor there. 

A low grunt was all the confirmation Jaskier needed. A weight lifted form his chest when he realized Geralt wouldn’t suddenly collapse in the middle of their room from blood loss or some kind of werewolf poison but it was short lived with the way he could physically _feel_ the way Geralt practically vibrated out of his skin. “And what does the Thunderbolt potion do?”

Geralt finally turns around to face him and _oh,_ his eyes are nothing but small rings of gold, practically glowing around a sea of black. “Heightened senses. Makes me faster, stronger.” 

Something clicks in Jaskier’s head. “So you’re just basically high on adrenaline and don’t have an outlet.” The minute nod he gets from the man in front of him has the minstrel heaving a sigh. “Gods, Geralt, don’t _scare_ me like that. I thought all that blood was yours, that you were nothing but minced meat for that werewolf.” 

“It couldn’t kill me.”

“Yes, I know that _now,_ you arse.”

“Hmm.” The taller of the two seemed to be done with talking as blood caked hands began pulling off his armor one piece at a time, the sound of leather slipping through buckles and straps until he was fully nude in front of Jaskier, and what a sight _that_ was. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the man in all his glory before, but damn if it didn’t make his heart beat a staccato rhythm in his chest every time, drowning him in want and affection and _need._

A need that quickly flew out the window as Geralt made a move toward the only bed in the room. “Oh, no, no, no,” Jasksier hurriedly placed himself between the witcher and the bed, arms stretched out despite knowing he couldn’t budge the other man an inch unless he wanted to be moved. “You are _not_ getting werewolf guts all over the only bed in the inn. That, sir, is disgusting, even for you.”

The look he got from the witcher was withering. “Going to sleep, have to get the potion out of my system.”

“At least bathe first, you heathen. I don’t fancy waking up to a bed that looks like a murder scene.”

An annoyed grunt was all he got for his efforts, which was standard enough with the witcher that all Jaskier could do was sigh and follow the man as he made his way to the small tub in the room. It had been filled with water hours ago, when Jaskier had tried to soak in it and relax and think of things _not_ involving Geralt getting his head bitten off by a monster, albeit unsuccessfully. 

Pale nostrils flared as Geralt came to a stop in front of the water, leftover petals and herbs floating across the surface from when the bard had taken his own bath. “Smells like you.” He commented in that sandpaper over gravel voice of his before getting into the tub, inches of muscle and scarred skin disappearing under the surface as he hissed at the cold temperature. 

Jaskier rolled his eyes at the man if only to keep his eyes off his arse. “Yes, I do apologize for bathing earlier. How rude of me.”

One quick _igni_ hand sign from Geralt and the water was back to nearly boiling, the liquid rapidly turning dark and muddied as blood flaked off the body in it. Steam wafted around the comically large man as Jaskier moved on autopilot, pulling a stool over and situating himself behind his travel companion so if Geralt so wished, he could lean back and rest his head on Jaskier’s lap.

It had become a sort of thing between them for him to bathe Geralt, to wash his hair and make him look somewhat presentable to the rest of the world. He knew he couldn’t erase the prejudice or scathing looks of fear that were tossed their way whenever they meandered into a new town by merely picking knots out of the man’s hair, but dammit, he was going to try.

“Melitele, did you dunk your head into its stomach or something?” He fought back a gag at the state of Geralt’s hair, the blood matting it until it looked like one big, gory clump.  


“Gutted it from the underside. Was rabid; couldn’t reason with it.” Was the only answer the white-haired man gave, instantly relaxing as deft fingers worked a gently scented oil into his locks, blunt fingernails scraping at his scalp and sending goosebumps rippling down his arms. 

From there, the two eased into a companionable silence, the only noise the sound of Jaskier forcing Geralt’s head underwater to scrub out the mess he couldn’t clean with just his fingers until that iconic head of hair was once more back to its natural state, clean and damp and smelling faintly of peaches. Said man stayed silent the entire time, letting out only the occasional grunt when Jaskier yanked a little too hard on a knot.

“I do believe you look a lot better than you did when you came bursting into the tavern, if I say so myself.” Jaskier tutted as he reached to the side of the tub and grabbed a comb made of wolf bone, intending to brush out what he couldn’t untangle with his hands when a soft noise had him glancing over at Geralt.

Geralt, who was once again sniffing the air like some kind of dog. Jaskier knew witchers had enhanced senses, but this was a little over the top. He was about to say something, until— “You smell like lust.” 

And right there is where Jaskier nearly had a heart attack, the comb falling from his hand and into the murky water. “E-excuse me?”

Catlike eyes turned to him, the lashes wet and only adding to the ethereal glow of those inhuman slits as Geralt pinned him to the stool with nothing but a look. “You know I can smell emotions. Fear, sadness, jealousy. I’ve told you before.”

“Um,”

“You smell of lust. Arousal, affection…” Geralt trailed off as he leaned his head back and nuzzled, fucking _nuzzled_ the inside of Jaskier’s thigh on the stool behind him. “Of _want_.”

Jaskier didn’t think he could turn any redder than he was at that moment. In fact, it was a miracle he could still somewhat think with all the blood in his body making a break for either his cock or his face. “Uh, Geralt-”

“I smell it on you all the time,” Geralt continues as if he isn’t shattering Jaskier’s world, isn’t making his heart ache with every little nudge of that sharp nose to the junction of his thigh and pelvis, nostrils flaring with every deep inhale. “You reek of it when we’re alone in the woods, in towns, _fuck,_ even during the night when you’re asleep.”

And, well. What could Jaskier possibly say to that? It sounded bad, he knew; it sounded like Geralt knew he wanted to jump his bones every time the man so much as looked his way, knew the kind of dreams that woke him in the middle of the night, aching and hard and so, so lovesick that he couldn’t even find it in himself to jerk off. 

But Geralt wasn’t into men. All the times he had seen the man take a lover, a mistress of the night, it was always just that; a mistress. A woman. Granted, he hadn’t seen the man seek out the pleasures of the flesh in a good few months, but a dry spell was hardly an indication of anything. 

And that fact quickly cooled the rapid heat burning in his belly, turned the arousal in his veins to ice.

This wasn’t Geralt talking—it was just a side effect of the potion. “What can I say,” Jaskier hummed, hoping he didn’t sound as close to breaking down as he felt in that moment, “I’m a man in my virile years.”

A sudden growl had cornflower blue eyes glancing down at a suddenly unhinged looking Geralt, those pale lips tracing along the outline of his throbbing cock through the fabric of his trousers, and wasn’t _that_ a sight. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. It’s making you smell like a pile of moldy hay.” 

And with that, Jaskier knew it was time to stop. “This isn’t what you want.” He began, sucking in a harsh breath when damp hair soaked a section of his inner thigh, when hot breath fanned out over the head of his trapped cock. “This is just the potion talking.”

“It’s not.” 

“What else _could_ it be?” Jaskier demanded, somewhat hysterically. Here he was, having Geralt where he only dreamed of, a living fantasy, and all he could think about were those times he caught the larger man staring at women, at whores that frequented the taverns in search of patrons. Of the times he told Jaskier to shut up when he apologized for sleeping with the mayor’s son, of the disappointment and thinly veiled disgust in those lovely, lovely eyes. “You’re not into men.”

There was no way he could let them go through with this and take advantage of his friend, his muse, his _everything_. It wasn’t right, would make him just as bad as those who took advantage of others when under the influence or just hurting. 

He refused to do that. Refused to put Geralt through that, through the guilt and disgust he knew the other man would feel.

“Who said I wasn’t into men?” The hint of teeth along his cock had the muscles in his thigh twitching, his hands sweaty and unsure of where to go. 

“Huh?” 

“I said,” Geralt ground out, thick fingers yanking up the fabric of his shirt to bare his happy trail to the suddenly warm air of the room, “Who told you I’m not into men?”  
It took a second for Jaskier to roll the words around in his head enough to understand them. “N-no one. You always sleep with women; what else was I supposed to conclude?”

A rough breath against the bare skin of his stomach had his toes curling and the hair on his arms standing up. “Not my usual taste, but the mood strikes occasionally.”

Jaskier didn’t have time to let that little fact rock his world before he felt moist lips trailing through the hair that dusted his navel and pubic area, the strands thick and coarse. A noise suspiciously close to a moan left Geralt, and all at once, that incredible body was turning around in the tub and the White Wolf all but had his face pressed against Jaskier’s crotch as close as he could get it, battle calloused hands gripping his thighs like he was afraid the man he was scenting would pull away. 

“Wait. Wait, wait a second,” Jaskier could have sworn at himself as he threaded his hand through the damp strands on his lap, halting Geralt’s apparent mission to _smell_ him to death. “You’re into men? What- why didn’t you say anything?”

“Didn’t want to scare you.”

“ _Scare me?_ ” His voice sounds breathlessly incredulous, “Darling, if I had known you’re into cock, I could have done so many things to you.”

The filthy moan that pulled out of the barrel chest he knew and loved was mind blowing. This time, when grabby hands began tugging on the laces that kept his breeches on his hips, Jaskier didn’t stop him. The noise Geralt made when his cock bobbed in the air right in front of the witchers nose, fat and desperate, nearly ended their little tryst far too early. “Not in general. Just want yours.”

Jaskier’s heart nearly stopped in his chest as he was suddenly sucked down a very willing throat, perfect lips creating a suction that forced noises of pleasure from his chest as a sharp nose was buried in his pubic hair, each bob of that beautiful head convincing the bard that yes, this was real and actually happening. 

And that apparently, Geralt had been lusting for him as well. 

When that mouth moved back and a skillful tongue danced around the thick head of his cock, Jaskier threw all caution to the wind and decided that if Geralt really was of sound mind to make this decision, far be it from him to make him stop. “ _Fuck,_ I’ve thought of this for _years_ ,” He found himself panting, unwilling to throw his head back and moan like he wanted to because that would mean losing the perfect image of his cock disappearing into Geralt’s mouth and down his throat, the pleased expression the other man wore whenever he felt Jaskier’s dick twitch in his mouth too arousing to miss. The man was all but stuffing himself as full of cock as he could, those hands that held a bruising grip on Jaskier’s thighs moving to caress balls lightly dusted with a fine chocolate spattering of hair, kneading and rolling them in all the right ways. 

The slurping sounds accompanied by the splash of water was quickly bringing Jaskier to his end far too soon. “Geralt, I’m not gonna last,” he warned as he took a fistful of the white hair bobbing in his lap and yanked just a little, just to feel the way the other man stuttered in his rhythm and groaned, heavy and deep, around his mouthful. 

The grip in his hair didn’t stop the usually taciturn witcher from rambling every time he stopped his frantic rhythm to whisper dirty confessions into the balls hanging heavy and eager from Jaskier’s pelvis, each word accompanied by a wet tongue. “’s alright, wanted you like this for so long, _fuck_ , Jas, you smell _so good all the goddamn time,_ ”

It was truly unfair that his orgasm snuck up on him like it did, barely giving Jaskier enough time to properly appreciate those words and the slick hand that resumed the frantic pace as Geralt mouthed at his balls. His orgasm didn’t wash over him so much as bowled him over, crushing every other sensation in him for what felt like eons as he rode the waves of pure bliss and the knowledge that Geralt apparently liked him a lot more than he let on. 

“ _Shit,_ ” Jaskier groaned, feeling himself spurt streaks of white down the throat he couldn’t help but watch while they ate together over campfires, trace the Adams apple that bobbed with every bite of whatever woodland creature he caught and roasted. 

Of course Geralt would swallow. Of course he would lick his lips like Jaskier’s spend was something worth tasting, something worth mouthing off his pubic hair like it was precious.

Fuck. They would definitely have to talk about this, would have to discuss what it meant for them. What it would change and what it wouldn’t, and Jaskier would have to confess to Geralt in words instead of longing touches and glances thrown over his shoulder.

He would have to know where Geralt stood on the topic of possibly taking him as his permanent lover, but he couldn’t bring himself to use words as the White Wolf himself sucked every last drop of cum off of him that he could.

Yeah, he would definitely be making them talk about this later. And hopefully, if he played his cards right, returning the favor.


End file.
